


better want what you wish for

by inlovewithnight



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2019-2020 NHL Season, M/M, Self-Discovery, past Jack/Sid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 22:28:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21216071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: Guddy’s grin gets wider. “Look at us. From third overall to third-pairing that everybody hates.”(Jack has a lot to figure out.)





	better want what you wish for

**Author's Note:**

> I did not match this to the Pens' actual schedule or record; apologies.
> 
> They traded Gudbranson the day after I finished drafting this, which I think was very inconsiderate of Jim Rutherford.

Guddy drops into the chair next to Jack and smiles at the waitress. “Shot and a beer, please. Whatever he had.” He gestures at the empty glasses in front of Jack. “Actually, make it two for me, and bring him another one. Thank you.” 

Jack tries to manage a glare, but it’s hard to be mad at Guddy. So far, at least. “I’m not paying for that.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I got it.” Guddy’s got a nice smile; bold and wide, lots of teeth. He’s handsome, not just the kind of vaguely good-looking that a lot of hockey players manage just by being in shape and remembering to shave regularly. Guddy’s legit handsome. 

“What brought you over here?” Jack glances across the room, to the table Guddy had been sitting at before. “Thought you and Bjugstad were making a night of it.” 

“Nah. Bjugy’s a buddy but I wanted to talk to you tonight.” 

Jack’s eyebrows go up, but he holds his peace as the waitress comes back with their drinks. He smiles and thanks her and downs the shot before he looks at Guddy again. “If you want to talk about drills or something, spare me. I’m taking the night off from thinking about work.” 

Guddy rolls his eyes. “No, dude. I don’t want to talk about work.” 

“What else is there to talk about?” Jack turns his attention to his beer. “No offense, but I don’t think we have all that much in common.” 

“Sure we do.” Guddy stretches his legs out under the table, slouching down in his chair. “Did you know that we both were third overall in our drafts?” 

Jack catches himself before he chokes on his drink. He waits a beat, swallows, then puts the glass down. “Seriously?” 

“Absolutely.” Guddy’s grin gets wider. “Look at us. From third overall to third-pairing that everybody hates.” 

Jack laughs, sharp and surprised, and picks up his beer again. “I’ll drink to that.” 

Guddy holds out his own beer and they clink glasses. “To the rapid decline of guys who got their draft stock by being big and hitting hard.” 

“Who knew everybody would give that up in favor of two-way players?” He’s tired so abruptly it hurts, a dull thudding ache in his chest. Maybe that’s just his heartbeat. “Ah, fuck it.” 

“I think we’re reinventing ourselves, though.” Apparently Guddy fully intends to keep going with this for a while. He still has another shot and beer in front of him, after all. “We’re doing okay together. We can be the shutdown pairing, or something like that, you know?” 

“Erik.” Jack tries to keep his tone mild, and choose his words carefully, but _fuck_ it. “I think you forgot that I said I didn’t want to talk about work.” 

“Did I?” Guddy tilts his head back and kills his beer, throat working in long slow swallows that Jack lets himself watch because, yet again, fuck it. “Shit. Guess I did. Sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” Jack digs through his pocket for his wallet. “I’m gonna close out and head up to my room. Have a good one.” 

“Sure.” 

Jack doesn’t look back as he makes his way to the bar, or after he pays. He just leaves. But he’s got the feeling that Guddy watches him go. 

** 

Another couple games, another couple cities, then Pittsburgh again. 

This time it’s weirder when Guddy joins him and orders himself a drink, because they’re not at the team’s road hotel bar. Jack’s at a bar he chose exactly because none of the other guys from the team go there. It’s not upscale enough for Letang, not private enough for Sid or Malkin, not fun enough for the younger guys. If Jack leaves his suit jacket in the car and puts on a baseball cap that doesn’t have the Pens logo on it, nobody notices him here. He is not a franchise face. 

Neither is Guddy, though maybe he was in Florida. Jack vaguely remembers Bjugy teasing him about photo shoots he did down there. It’s not surprising, with the whole handsome thing. Guddy could totally pull off being a part-time model. 

“JJ,” Guddy says, once he has his drink in front of him. “You look a little down.” 

“Thought I was going to have some peace and quiet.” He gives a pointed look. “Not talk about work.” 

“Who said anything about work?” Guddy grins at him like he thinks it’ll be infectious, but Jack keeps himself from playing along. “We did good tonight, man.” 

“See? There you go talking about it.” They had done good, though, graded on their mutual curve of not committing any major giveaways or an own goal. 

“Right, right. Last thing about that, I promise.” 

Jack doesn’t believe him in the slightest, but they sit in silence for three or four plays on the football game on the TV overhead. Jack is thinking about ordering another round when Guddy talks again. 

“You smoke, JJ?” 

Jack blinks, swirling the last of the beer in his glass. “Can you be a little more specific?” 

That earns a big, bright laugh. Stupid… handsome. Ugh. “I was thinking of cigars.” 

Jack nods and drains that last bit of beer. “I can definitely be talked into a cigar.” 

“All right.” Guddy looks so pleased with himself, it’s ridiculous. It’s goofy. Jack can’t bring himself to want to take it back, though. So they have something in common, so what. “Let me finish this and let’s go, then.” 

Jack laughs, not at all big or bright. “What?” 

“I’ve got some cigars in my car. We’ll go have a smoke.” He throws his head back and chugs again, and his throat looks really good again, and Jack _hates_ this low hot ache in his stomach when he sees something like that, he really does. 

Guddy’s mouth makes a little wet popping sound when he pulls the glass away, and Jack hates that, too. 

“Come on,” Guddy says, dropping cash on the bar in a careless way that is not the same as the way the boys on big contracts do it. This is something he’s been planning out, or overthinking, or daydreaming about while lying around waiting for the aches and pains to fade. Jack is familiar with all of the above. “No talking about work. I promise.” 

** 

They sit on the hood of Guddy’s car, in a mid-level floor of a parking garage, their feet up on the concrete ledge looking out into Pittsburgh. It’s cool enough that the awful smells that accumulate in garages, even in the nice part of town, are lying low, and nothing’s competing with the cigar smoke. Jack has to admit this is a nice way to wrap up the night. He won’t say it out loud, but he’ll admit it to himself. 

Guddy blows out a slow, lopsided smoke ring. He’s staring out the open part of the garage wall, his profile turned to Jack, so Jack gets a good view of his perfect jawline. Fuckin’… model. Jack shifts and looks away, at the car parked a few spaces away from them. His stomach is hot and uncomfortable. 

“We should go golfing sometime,” Guddy says after a while. “You golf, right?” 

“Sure.” They don’t let you play hockey if you don’t golf, as far as Jack knows. “Little late in the year, though.” 

Guddy laughs. “We’ll have a day off somewhere warm at some point, I bet. Or I’ll find you in the spring.” 

“Thanks for thinking I’ll still be here in the spring, buddy.” It’s a joke, but it isn’t. Which part is worse, knowing the team wants to trade him or knowing nobody else wants to take him on? Fuck if Jack knows anymore. 

“You never know. We could both break a leg or something.” 

“That’s the spirit.” They’re both giggling over their cigars, and it’s—it’s nice. Jack forgot about this part, the camaraderie part. Bonding with the boys. The Pens locker room isn’t cold, exactly; nobody shuts him out, nobody holds anything against him. They don’t take the step to meet him halfway, is all, but then again Jack’s not taking any steps either. Standing his ground and bracing himself against the oncoming weather is more his thing. 

“Ah, shit,” Guddy sighs, knocking ash off his cigar. “It’s better than working for a living, eh?” 

“That’s for sure.” Jack isn’t bracing himself now, so when Guddy bumps against his shoulder, he moves with the impact, swaying away from him and then back again. That heat in his stomach kind of blooms outward and fills up all of him, all the way to the skin. 

He knows he should get up and run away, but for some reason he doesn’t. He stays right there until they’ve both smoked their cigars down, and then they both get in their cars and head home. 

It was a good time, he thinks as he unlocks the door and steps into the quiet dark of his house. Maybe he would keep an eye out for a chance to have that golf game. 

He strips out of his suit and tosses it on the floor, followed by his shirt, undershirt, boxers, and gets in bed naked, his hand on his dick before he’s under the blankets. He squeezes slowly, then gives in and jerks of fast and rough, not letting any particular image or thought come into focus in his mind. He’s not thinking about anybody or any one thing. He’s just getting off so he can sleep. 

He sleeps better than usual for after a game, actually. 

** 

When he gets to the arena for practice the next day, he’s humming to himself. It’s a cliché to say there’s a spring in his step, but maybe a little bounce. A little more than usual. 

He looks up from kicking his street shoes off and finds Sid and Letang looking at him with amusement. Those two are like the jokes about old married couples starting to look like each other—and Geno, too, the gang of three. It’s not their actual physical appearance, just the vibe. The way they can anticipate each other’s words and movements and probably thoughts, for all Jack knows. 

“What?” he says, looking back and forth between them. “Do I have something in my teeth?” 

“You’re just in a good mood,” Sid says. “Did you find a twenty on the sidewalk on the way in?” 

“I’m always in a good mood, Crosby.” Jack tugs his shirt off over his head. “Nothing special about today.” 

Letang snorts. He must have practiced his whole life to be able to do that so eloquently; he can put a whole paragraph in the sound. “You don’t want to tell us, don’t tell us, but don’t _lie_.” 

“I’m not lying!” Jack laughs despite himself. “Why are you guys watching me anyway? Thinking about what kind of day I’m having?” 

“Captain shit,” Letang says dryly, and Sid rolls his eyes. 

“Sid doesn’t do captain shit to me,” Jack says. “You know better, right, Sid?” 

“Something like that.” As always, the master of the cryptic. “I need to go get taped up. You coming, Tanger?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Letang tosses his hair out of his face and points at Jack. “Keep up the happy face, eh? It’s a nice look.” 

Jack doesn’t have any damn idea what that is supposed to mean, but the two of them leave before he has to think of a response. And as soon as they’re out the door, Guddy comes in, so he immediately has to forget about all that and turn around into his locker so they don’t look at each other. 

“Morning, JJ.” So much for that, then. “How’s it going?” 

“It’s going fine. Normal day.” He is officially no longer suspiciously happy. “You?” 

“Doing all right. Extra caramel drizzle on my coffee on the way in. Can’t go wrong with that.” 

Jack has never in his life thought someone else’s coffee order was cute. What the fuck. “Sure can’t.” 

** 

About a week later, he comes out of the locker room after practice and finds Sid waiting in the hallway. “Hey,” Jack says, shifting his bag on his shoulder. “See you tomorrow.” 

“I was waiting for you, actually.” Sid picks up his own bag and gestures down the hall. “Walk out with me?” 

Oh, god. A Crosby ambush. “What’s up?” 

“It’s nothing bad, Jack. I just wanted to talk to you.” 

“Okay.” They walk the rest of the way to the door in silence, one that feels awkward to Jack but doesn’t seem to bother Sid at all. Sometimes Sid’s ability to either have total Zen or fake it well makes Jack want to punch him in the throat. 

“So,” Sid says once they’re outside. “How are things going?” 

“Fine.” Jack nods stiffly, digging around in his pocket for his keys and carefully not looking at Sid at all. He doesn’t want to play this game. “You?” 

“Decent. Pretty good.” Sid stops and Jack bites back a sigh, turning to face him. “How are things _actually_ going, Jack?” 

“Fine, Sid. Things are actually fine.” 

“You haven’t seemed quite yourself lately.” 

Jack doesn’t let himself yell very much, but he can put some bite in his voice when he wants to. “Don’t do that.” 

“I’m just asking.” 

“I said I’m fine. Don’t captain me if it’s not actually about my play.” 

“That’s actually looked better since you started acting weird.” 

Maybe it’s not the faux-Zen that makes Jack want to punch him in the throat. Maybe it’s just _Sid_. “Then there’s no problem.” 

“I’m not allowed to be concerned about you as a person?” 

“I would prefer if you didn’t.” 

Sid sighs, rolling his neck and staring up at the sky. “God, you are frustrating.” 

Jack doesn’t know why that makes him crack; there’s no reason for it. “I’m fine, Sid. Really. I’ve got some stuff on my mind but it’s not, like, serious. I’m okay.” 

Sid looks at him again, eyes narrowing a little. “You would tell me if you needed some help?” 

Jack meets his gaze. “I absolutely would not.” 

“Jack!” 

There’s just enough whiny frustration in Sid’s voice to make Jack laugh. It’s like being old friends again. “Go home, Sid. I promise I’m fine.” 

Sid shakes his head but turns toward his own car. “I’ll have Tanger keep an eye on you. And Gudbranson.” 

Thank god they’re not facing each other anymore, because Jack feels his face go hot and red. He squeezes his keys until they bite his fist and hurries to his car. God. The last thing he needs is Guddy’s eyes on him all the time. 

Sid cuts him off on the way out of the lot, because he’s a jackass. Jack flips him off while they wait for the light. Some things never change. 

** 

Either Sid doesn’t make good on his threat or Letang and Guddy are good at subtlety, because Jack doesn’t feel watched at all. Maybe they’ve all grown up and calmed down. 

He and Guddy stay matched up as d-partners. Things are going okay on the ice, and while there aren’t any more weirdly intense cigar nights, they do grab a few more drinks, in Pittsburgh and on the road. They get better at not talking about hockey, too—instead they talk about Scotch, TV, Guddy’s family. Guddy knows enough not to ask about Jack’s family without making it obvious and weird. Jack is getting comfortable with this, and he’d forgotten how good comfortable can be. 

The twisting heat in his stomach doesn’t go away, unfortunately, but he’s getting better at riding it out. He jerks off more than he used to, but that’s probably just part of feeling a little more comfortable in general. Rutherford hasn’t floated a trade in a few weeks. Things are _okay_. 

Obviously that lasts right up until the Blue Jackets come to town. 

Trades are a normal part of life in the NHL. Jack doesn’t feel weird about playing his former team. The guys get it. There’s no revenge waiting for him on the ice or anything like that. The part he feels weird about is Torts. 

His relationship with Torts had never crossed any lines, but it had its own… tension. Something like that. Torts saw something in him that Jack wasn’t entirely sure was there. He seemed to see Jack as a hard-luck kid who needed another chance, with the emphasis on _kid_ that was kind of… 

Jack was aware that his dad was not the greatest example of good parenting in the world. Very aware, bone-deep aware. But that didn’t mean he needed another dad, or even a father figure. Maybe that wasn’t what Torts was trying to do, or at least not intentionally, but— 

Tension. Maybe it was all coming from Jack, but eventually he couldn’t stand it any longer. So he asked for a trade. 

He only vaguely remembers the conversation with Torts when he found out. It was shitty and loud and awful and memories like that don’t stick for him, they just kind of slide out and leave foggy space behind. He knows he hurt Torts pretty bad by cutting and running. He knows that’s all on him and he can’t blame anybody else. And that kind of knowledge feels really bad, and makes him want to bolt if he even thinks about the possibility of having face-to-face contact with John Tortorella again. 

He saw a counselor a couple of times when the whole lawsuit thing was happening, because his lawyer told him to, and that guy had suggested that his discomfort with tension was something to do with his dad, too. Jack would really prefer not to get too deep into that. Digging into the dirt piled up over monsters never seemed like a good idea to him. Let them sleep. Grow up and move on. 

The point is: Torts is not his father figure. He is a former coach. And Jack doesn’t have to talk to him anymore. 

Unless he’s talking to his buddies from CBJ before warm-ups and Torts appears out of nowhere like a goddamn vampire and says “Jack. There you are.” 

Murray and Boone both take a step back. “See you on the ice, there, JJ,” Boone says after a minute. “Better go get warmed up.” 

“Yeah,” Jack says. He can’t blame them for not wanting to stick around for whatever weirdness is about to happen. “Hey, John.” 

That makes Torts smile a bit, the corners of his mouth quirking up but his eyes not quite warming behind his grandfatherly little glasses. “How are things?” 

“Oh, you know. Can’t complain.” He doesn’t know what to say; it can’t be anything real, but he can’t just walk away, either. “How are the dogs?” 

That gets some warmth, at least, though it’s obvious that Torts knows exactly how much of a dodge he’s doing. “They’re well. Thanks for asking.” 

“Good. Good.” He nods, shoving his hands into his pockets. This is awful. “Well. Should be a good game.” 

“I see you’re playing with Gudbranson. That’s an interesting pair.” 

What does _that_ mean? “Yeah, it’s going all right. We work well together.” 

Torts tilts his head a little, his gaze sharpening, and Jack doesn’t have the first idea why. “That’s good,” Torts says after a minute. “I’m glad you’re doing well.” 

“Thanks.” It’s definitely time to retreat to the locker room. “Well. I should…” 

“Me too.” Another smile, and this one is genuine, the kind of smile Torts used to give him in one of their semi-paternal one-on-one coffee talks that Jack should have shied away from but didn’t. They felt good even though he hated them. They made him feel recognized even though he knew that was stupid. They—god. He’s pathetic. 

“Let’s keep it clean out there,” Torts says, turning back toward the visitors’ room. “As much as possible, anyway.” 

“Yes, sir,” Jack answers without thinking, and immediately winces. That was pathetic, too. He walks away fast, trying to think ahead to pads and skates and taking somebody into the wall, and crushing out all of these feelings with hard physical effort. 

** 

They get the win, thank god. Being weird in front of Torts, _again_, plus losing, would just be too much to fucking take. 

Jack lets himself move slowly after the game, through cooldown and his shower and packing up his bag. Some of the guys are talking about grabbing dinner or a drink, others are clearly in a hurry to get home. There are vague unhappy noises coming from the trainers’ rooms and the guys who are getting extra work on aggravated sore spots. Jack doesn’t fit into any of those groups. He’s just floating along, letting the room empty out. 

His head’s all mixed up for some reason. Maybe because he’s tired, maybe from talking to Torts, who knows, but the walls in his mind that keep things from bleeding into each other and getting in the way of his life seem to all be crumbling down tonight. He’s trying to zip his gear bag and he remembers his dad waiting for him at the car after games when he was a kid. He’s tying his shoes and he thinks about laughing with Sid at Shattuck. He’s pulling his jacket on and Torts is back in his head, holding one of those damn cups of coffee and talking about what people owe to each other. 

Jack doesn’t want to owe anyone anything. Owing people things, in his experience, is not good. 

He sinks back down on the bench and ducks his head down between his knees, forcing himself to breathe slowly, in and out. It’s not quite a panic attack, but it sucks, tightness in his chest and swirling noise in his head and his hands are shaking until he slides them under his thighs and weights them down. 

“JJ? You okay, dude?” 

He nods, eyes still squeezed shut. It’s Guddy’s voice, of course, because he has the worst luck. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just... just need a minute.” 

He hears footsteps crossing the room toward him. “You need me to grab a trainer? You look like you’re going to pass out.” 

“No. I’m okay.” He will be okay by physical force if necessary. “Just got a little overwhelmed for a minute.” 

He can feel the presence of Guddy’s body standing there in front of him, close enough for him to sense without looking. Tall and warm. “You got overwhelmed by putting on your shoes?” 

It’s an out, if he can handle the pass. “Wait until you’re my age, buddy, you have no idea.” 

Guddy’s quiet for a minute, then Jack feels a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, I don’t think so. I’m gonna grab you some Gatorade. Don’t move.” 

“I’m okay, just–” He opens his eyes and Guddy’s already gone. “Shit. Erik, don’t worry about it, I just need to go home.” 

“Drink this first.” He comes back with a Gatorade and twists the cap off, then kneels down and holds the bottle up to Jack’s mouth like Jack’s a kid and that’s just more than he can take. 

“I got it, I got it.” He grabs the bottle, splashing some down over his own hand and onto his suit. “Shit.” Well, whatever, it was going to the dry cleaner anyway. He closes his eyes and drinks, letting the sugar and electrolytes race through him. They can’t do any good given that his problem is just being a basket case, but it’s not worth fighting with Guddy. 

When did _anything_ become not worth fighting with Guddy? What the hell is going on with him? 

He opens his eyes and Guddy is still crouched there in front of him, watching with serious eyes. “Thanks,” Jack mutters, handing the bottle back to him. “That’s, uh. Better.” 

“No problem.” Guddy puts the cap back on and unfolds himself, then offers his hand. For a beat Jack just stares at it, not sure why this is a moment for a handshake, until he realizes that Guddy is offering to help him up. “Oh. Thanks. I should get home.” 

“I’ll drive you.” He’s already shaking his head before Jack can even start to argue. “You almost passed out, you can’t be behind the wheel. What if you took out some little old lady or something? Very bad PR. Jim would shit a brick. Can’t have that, eh?” 

“He would probably just have me shot,” Jack says dryly. 

“Let’s avoid that, too.” Guddy grabs Jack’s bag and nods toward the door. “Quit arguing with me and let’s go.” 

** 

Guddy invites himself inside when they get to Jack’s house, then helps himself to a drink in Jack’s kitchen. “Just making sure you don’t pass out again,” he says as he pours himself some of Jack’s whiskey. “And this is to thank me for the ride.” 

“I didn’t ask you for a ride in the first place,” Jack reminds him. “Pour me one, too.” 

“Not sure you should have any if you’re not feeling right.” 

“I’m _fine_.” Jack’s tone makes Guddy’s eyebrows go up, but he pours another drink and hands it over. 

“Cheers.” 

They stand there for a few minutes, sipping without talking, until the silence starts to feel too thick and heavy. It threatens to choke up Jack’s throat and he sets his glass down before he can fail to swallow. 

“Jack,” Guddy says finally. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

Why this question is the one that finally cracks him, Jack couldn’t say. Everybody he knows has asked it a thousand times. There’s no reason for this time to be the one that makes him answer. Guddy’s tone isn’t particularly caring or careful or anything. He’s not even making eye contact when he asks; he’s looking at his drink. There’s no reason. 

Maybe Jack’s just tired. 

“No,” he says, leaning back against the refrigerator. “I’m not sure at all. I’m just…” He waves one hand in a vague circle. “I’m just trying to get through it all.” 

“What are you going to do then?” 

Jack blinks. “What?” 

“Once you get through it.” Guddy shrugs and takes a drink. “What are you going to do after that?” 

Jack squints at him for a moment, trying to tell if he’s joking, but there’s no smile, no crack in the tension. “I guess something else will come along to get through. That’s usually how it works.” 

“So you live crisis to crisis?” 

“I don’t know if I would call any of it a crisis, it’s more like, just… problem to problem…” Jack shakes his head. “Why do you care, anyway?” 

“Jesus.” Guddy exhales sharply and downs the rest of his drink. “Take a wild guess.” 

“I really, seriously have no idea.” 

Guddy stares at him for a minute. “You really don’t, do you?” 

“Jesus Christ, Erik.” He doesn’t know if he wants to yell or throw his hands up in frustration. “Just fucking tell me, please. It would be doing me a huge favor.” 

Guddy’s glass hits the table with a clink, and before Jack can move Guddy is stepping toward him, crowding his space and holding him to the refrigerator with just the presence of his body so close to Jack’s own. Guddy has two inches on him according to the official stats, but it feels like more like this; it feels like Guddy is looming over him, and the way Guddy is looking at him is like he’s turning Jack inside out. 

“I care because I care,” Guddy says. He cups Jack’s face in his hands—big, broad hands, strong hockey-playing hands, hands like a fucking giant—and tips his chin up, then kisses him. 

And it’s… it’s really being kissed. It’s a kiss like in a movie. It’s deep and hungry and there’s feeling behind it, there’s meaning. Jack isn’t sure if he’s ever been kissed like this; if he has, it was a long time ago. 

He doesn’t know how long it goes on before Guddy slowly pulls back. “Okay?” Guddy asks softly, dragging his hand back through his hair and studying Jack’s face. “Did I surprise you there?” 

“Yeah. Uh. Yeah to both of those.” Jack takes a shaky breath, trying to will his heart to slow down and steady out. “You… I didn’t know you…” 

“But it’s okay?” 

“I… I think so. Yeah.” Jack swallows hard and makes himself meet Guddy’s eyes. “We’re good.” 

“I’ll see you at practice tomorrow?” 

A flash of disappointment goes through Jack’s chest—oh, he’s not going to stay, it’s not going to happen again, there isn’t any chance of anything, like, _more_, which can’t even come into focus in his head but he knows it exists out there somewhere—but he manages a nod. “Of course.” 

Guddy’s watching him closely, uncertainty in his eyes. “You look like you need a little space to think. I know I sprang that on you kinda out of nowhere.” 

He’s right, he’s definitely right. Jack knows that. Wanting to scream and ask him to stay is not rational. He needs to be rational. “I’ll see you at practice.” 

Guddy nods, and goes, and Jack’s alone in his kitchen with a bottle of whiskey and the hum of the refrigerator. He doesn’t sink to the floor—he thinks about it, but his knees might not let him get back up again. Better to just go down the hall and go to bed. 

He doesn’t even take the bottle with him. If he did that, he probably wouldn’t make it to practice. 

** 

He actually gets to practice early, so that was a good choice. He walks to the locker room and drops his bag on the bench, looks at the clock, and steps out of the room again. There’s time to kill and restless energy under his skin that needs to be walked off. 

He isn’t thinking, he’s just walking, and that ends up being a stupid fucking thing to do, because he finds himself at the door to the head coach’s office without meaning to go there at all. He doesn’t knock, thank god, but the door is open, and his body in front of it changes the light enough to make Sullivan look up from his laptop. “Johnson. Hey. What do you need?” 

Jack stares at him, his mouth falling open a little. He doesn’t—he doesn’t need anything, he doesn’t even know why he walked down here. He could’ve done a full lap of the place without coming by the coaches’ offices. Did his subconscious forget what team he played for and take him on a walk looking for Torts? Because he’s not going to get coffee and conversation here. Sullivan is not interested in being pseudo-paternal for anyone and if he was, it would be the younger kids just up from Wilkes-Barre, not his broken-down heap of a defenseman that nobody even wants— 

“Johnson?” Sullivan’s frowning now. “Jack, hey, you all right?” 

“Sorry,” Jack says. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. “I’m fine, yeah. Just zoned out, I guess.” 

“Did you need to talk to me about something?” Sullivan’s looking at him closely; his eyes are always sharp but now it’s like they’re going to peel Jack’s skin off and dig right into his skull. 

Jack takes a step back. “No. I didn’t even mean to come down here. I was just walking around and... and like I said, zoned out.” 

“You think maybe you need to have the trainers check you out?” 

“No. No, I’m fine.” He shakes his head, drops his gaze to the floor, tries to drag up a smile. None of that’s making him look any more convincing, he knows. “Sorry to bother you.” 

“You want to take a maintenance day today?” 

That’s a double-edged offer; if he takes it, he’s confirming that he’s broken-down and useless. If he doesn’t, he has to be at 100% the whole practice and not miss a step, because Sullivan’s going to be watching him. “No, I’ll skate. I swear, I’m fine.” 

“Okay.” Sullivan glances back at his laptop. “I need to finish up a few things here. I’ll see you out on the ice.” 

“Yeah.” The dismissal is a gift, and Jack takes it, hurrying back to the locker room and going straight to the toilets, where he’s got the privacy to rest his head against the wall and concentrate on breathing. God. What is _wrong_ with him, besides the obvious? How is he going to get through this practice with Sullivan watching him, and Guddy on the ice with him, and everything in his head moving at double speed with flashing lights and a siren? 

He must have somebody looking out for him from upstairs, because the focus of the practice is penalty kill, which he does not play. All he has to do is get in the way, over and over again, while the coaches yell instructions at the PK special teams and question their commitment to etcetera etcetera. 

Guddy doesn’t avoid him, but doesn’t seek him out, either; they nod at each other when they switch shifts during the drills, and chirp Riikola when he loses an edge. The little bit of space, the lack of tension, lets Jack relax a little bit. He even gets a puck off Guentzel in one of the drills, earning some stick-taps and a “Nice job, Johnson” from Sullivan. 

He leaves practice feeling good, which lasts right up until he goes into the parking lot and finds Sid waiting for him at his car. 

“Are you making this a habit?” Jack asks, thumbing his key fob to open the trunk and throwing his bag inside. “Because that’s not gonna work for me.” 

“Coach asked me to check in on you.” 

Jack’s jaw immediately clenches so hard it hurts. He makes himself breathe out slowly before he closes the trunk and turns to face Sid. “Like I told him, I’m fine.” 

Sid’s jaw is clenched, too, and Jack’s eyes trace the line of it, lingering on where it’s different from how he first learned it, the different lines and angles where it got rebuilt after breaking. “He said you came to his office disoriented.” 

Might as well cut to the chase. “I don’t have a concussion, Sid.” 

“Maybe not a fresh one, but—” 

“I just hadn’t had coffee yet. That’s all.” He puts up one hand, either defensively or placatingly, even he doesn’t really know. “I swear. I’m okay.” 

Sid stares at him for a long moment, then exhales, the set of his shoulders easing. “All right. Just, you know. Like I said. If something’s wrong, you’ve gotta tell me.” 

“Because you need more to worry about.” 

“Because I need you to be okay!” Sid’s voice comes out as a harsh bark, so unlike his usual controlled tone that it startles them both. A long moment passes before he speaks again, both of them breathing loudly in the silence. “We’re all getting older, Jack. Every game, I gotta think about how something might go wrong and I lose somebody for good. People telling me when something’s wrong actually makes me worry _less_, because maybe I can do something about it. Okay? Can you just fucking... do that for me? You stubborn asshole.” 

“You’re calling _me_ a stubborn asshole?” Jack rolls his eyes, curling his hands into fists to hide how they’re shaking. “That’s funny.” 

“Yeah, well.” Sid rubs his eyes and shrugs. “I’m asking.” 

They stand there for another minute, until Jack clears his throat. Fuck it. Fuck this. If Sid wants honesty, he can have it, and see how he actually likes it. “I, uh. I’m okay, for real, but... there is one thing that maybe we could talk about.” Sid’s shoulders tense again. “It’s not anything bad. Just... a thing.” 

Sid folds his arms on the roof of the car and leans onto it. “Okay, shoot.” 

Now he’s committed, and he has to figure out how to actually say the words. Shit. “Do you remember at Shattuck?” 

Sid’s eyebrows go up. “Something specific, or just in general?” 

Asshole. “When we, uh.” The parking lot isn’t empty, but everyone else is giving them a wide berth. Captain’s privilege, probably. Jack drops his voice anyway. “Those couple of times we... messed around.” That’s maybe overstating it; they didn’t go very far. Hungry kissing, awkward making out, humping against each other in a sweaty mess. Just a couple of times, and then Sid went away. 

The eyebrows go even higher. “Yeah, of course I remember, Jack.” 

_Asshole_. “I always thought, like, that was just... just being kids. Just because it was you. Not... not something that was, like, _me_, but something different because it was you.” 

Sid rests his chin on his folded arms, staring at Jack like he’s trying to see through him. “Jack, we’re always gonna be friends, but I—” 

For fuck’s sake. “You are so fucking cocky. I’m not saying I’m interested in you.” 

Direct hit; Sid goes pink all the way to his ears. “Then what are you saying?” 

“I kissed a guy.” There it is, out loud. Real. His voice doesn’t catch when he says it or anything. “Just recently. The first time since... since with you. So maybe it is, uh, part of me. Not just you.” 

He expects something awkward, or for for Sid to draw back from him. Instead Sid just keeps looking at him, his chin on his arms. 

It’s more than Jack can take, actually. “Say something.” 

“I know that was hard to say out loud.” Sid reaches across the roof of the car, his hand open for Jack. “I’m glad you felt like you could tell me.” 

“Don’t make this like a therapy session, Christ.” Jack’s body sags against the side of the car anyway. Fuck. He knew Sid wouldn’t be cold about it—he just, he wouldn’t—but it’s still a relief. “I just don’t know what to do with it. What to do now.” 

“Well, you like this guy, right? You should see him again.” 

Jack laughs a little, breathless. “Just that simple?” 

“Why not?” 

“I’m too old to have a voyage of self-discovery.” Jack rests his forehead on the roof of the car; he can’t hold that position for long, it hurts his nose, but for a minute it’s good to hide his face. “I’m too old for any of this.” 

“We’re hockey old, not actually old, buddy.” He feels Sid’s fingertips ruffle his hair, just a little bit. His nose really hurts, but he doesn’t want to move away from that. “You have time to be happy.” 

He has to pick his head up, but at least that means he can meet Sid’s eyes. “I don’t think this is a long-term thing like that. It’s just... I don’t know. But not that.” 

“So? You can have fun. You can learn about this.” Sid’s looking at him so seriously and intently, Jack’s chest might explode. “You can be happy. It’s okay.” 

Jack half-laughs, half-coughs, and to his surprise tears slip out of his eyes. He rubs the back of his hand over his face quickly. “Oh, okay. If I’ve got your permission.” 

“I’ll put it in writing if you want.” 

“No thanks.” Jack picks up his keys and gives Sid as stern a look as he can manage. It’s not much. “Are you gonna get off my car so I can go home?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Sid steps back, grinning at him like things are better. Not even just okay, but better than they were. “See ya.” 

** 

The problem that Jack runs into is that he doesn’t know what to do next. Guddy kissed him—okay, great, awesome. Jack’s subsequent emotional turmoil got sorted out without him getting arrested or having a breakdown—even better. Strong work. But now what? What is he supposed to do to move any of this forward? 

Because Guddy is clearly not going to do the work himself. He’s friendly with Jack—smiles at him across the room, gives him shoulder-punches and stick taps on the ice, generally acts exactly like normal. Everything is in Jack’s court. It’s his comfort zone, his decision-making, his ability to _move_ that’s the driver here. 

He has to take the first step, and he doesn’t know how. 

So another week goes by, where he hasn’t done anything and Guddy hasn’t done anything and the season is moving along and he could still be moved out of Pittsburgh any day, any moment. And like he told Sid, this isn’t a special thing, this isn’t a magical lifelong thing, this is a right-place-right-time buddies-that-could-be-more thing. If he gets moved, the chance drops, and it won’t ever come back again. He can just hang up the whole concept of a relationship until he gets to retirement. 

That has its own appeal, honestly. Jack Johnson is a generic enough name that he can disappear when he retires. Nobody he meets after he signs his retirement papers will ever know his backstory, nobody will ever pity him or take him as the punchline to a long-running joke. He will be nobody. 

But the more he thinks about it, the more he’s not _quite_ ready for it yet. He wants one or two more things as himself, backstory and all. Maybe Sid’s right, maybe he deserves to be happy. 

He broods on it and stews over it and finally one evening he gets up off the couch, goes to his bar setup, and takes out a bottle of whiskey and two cigars. He arranges them on the bar in a semi-artful way, takes a picture, and texts it to Guddy. Maybe going back to the basics will work. 

He gets an answer a few minutes later, maybe the longest few minutes of his life. _Is this an invitation?_

Jack’s heart does a flip. Here goes. _Yeah, come over._

_Give me 20 minutes._

Jack puts his phone down and walks a slow lap around the house, trying not to let his mind race ahead into trouble. It’s no big deal. Drinks and cigars. If more happens, it happens; if it doesn’t, he’ll live, probably. He’s lived this long. 

He _wants_ something to happen. It’s a strange, electric feeling, and he doesn’t want it to stop. 

The knock at the door makes him jump. Guddy’s standing on his porch wearing a pair of Panthers warm-up pants and a hoodie that’s so extremely abused that he’s probably had it since he was a teenager. “Hey, Jack.” 

“Hey.” Jack steps back, wincing as the evening air hits him. “Come on, it’s cold out.” 

“I just walked the ten feet from the car, I’m fine.” Guddy grins, kicking his shoes off as Jack locks the door. “Thanks for the invite, though, I was going stir-crazy at home.” 

“You can only watch so much TV, right?” Jack waves down the hall toward the living room. “You hungry? I have... I don’t know. Not much, actually. We could order something.” 

“Nah, I ate.” Guddy makes his way to the bar and picks up the bottle from where it’s still sitting posed with the cigars. “Glenlivet 25, eh? Good stuff.” 

“Going-away present from Dubinsky.” Jack gets some glasses and sets them out on the bar. “You only drink this neat, you know. No ice, and god have mercy on your soul if you even think about a mixer.” 

Guddy laughs. “I’m not a rookie, Jack. I know how to drink.” 

“Hey, you never know what they teach the kids down in Florida.” Jack pours carefully, not wasting a drop. “You probably were drinking fruity beach cocktails down there.” 

“Not all the time.” Guddy takes a glass and raises it with a little nod. “To third overall.” 

“Ha.” Jack lifts his glass in response. “To not having murdered Tanger yet.” 

“Oh, Jesus.” They both drink. “_Yet_ being the operative word.” 

“I don’t speak French, but I can tell when I’m being shit-talked.” 

“Amen to that.” Guddy moves over to the couch and sits, swinging his feet up onto the coffee table. “He’s a good guy, though. Everybody here is.” 

“Sure.” Jack stays at the bar, leaning back against it and taking a slow sip of whiskey. 

“Sullivan’s good, too. Compared to some of the gong shows out there...” He trails off and laughs softly, which makes him look younger for a minute. “Sorry, we’re talking about work. I know you hate that.” 

“I started it this time.” 

“You gonna stay over there all night? There’s plenty of couch.” 

Jack looks at the empty cushion next to Guddy and takes a bigger sip than the Glenlivet deserves. “I thought maybe I’d cut the cigars.” 

“Not yet, eh?” Guddy’s looking at him steadily. Things are still in Jack’s court, but Guddy’s not hiding that he _wants_, and that’s... 

At some point Jack apparently became a sucker for being wanted. 

He crosses the room and sits down, gripping his glass for dear life. “Should we talk about this, or...” 

“That’s up to you.” Guddy half-turns so he’s facing Jack, and sets his own glass down on the table. “Personally, I’m more of a do it first, talk about it later kind of guy." 

Jack nods slowly and takes one more sip, then puts his drink down as well. His head is spinning, thoughts moving too fast to make any sense. He definitely can’t come up with anything to say, anyway. Doing first, talking later might be the only option. 

So he leans in and catches Guddy’s mouth in a kiss. 

It’s clumsy, embarrassingly so, but Guddy doesn’t seem to mind. He shifts closer, curving one hand around the back of Jack’s head to hold him in place. They find their way into it together, slow and awkward and then less awkward and then good, really good. Jack’s jaw relaxes, then his neck, then his shoulders, and he lets himself lean into it, melt into it, give himself up to it. 

Guddy makes a low noise in his throat, his fingers twisting against Jack’s short-cropped hair like they wish they could tangle in it. His teeth scrape against Jack’s lower lip, then catch it in the smallest bite, and Jack _shakes_, a shiver that goes through him like an electric shock. 

“Okay?” Guddy asks, so fucking patient, and Jack nods, moving in closer, trying to get Guddy’s mouth back. This isn’t like it was with Sid when they were kids—that was fumbling and experimental and giddy, this is hungry and yearning, on his part, and steady and patient, on Guddy’s. Jack and Sid were at the same level and coming from the same direction, while Guddy knows what he’s doing and Jack is chasing as fast as he can to catch up. 

Like he’s flying down the ice in a way he hasn’t actually done in years, speed back in his legs, everything fresh and new. 

Guddy’s hand squeezes a little at the back of Jack’s head, and then drops away as Guddy breaks the kiss, breathing hard. “I need to move a little,” he says, laughing roughly. “Let me just...” 

“Yeah.” Jack sits up, pulling back to give Guddy room and choking back a sudden fear that the moment will shatter and all this will disappear again. He watches Guddy with a frantic intensity, trying to will him not to change his mind. 

“Okay.” Guddy’s shifted around so he can lean back against the arm of the couch, one leg stretched out down the length of the cushions. “Let’s try this and see how it... hey, what’s that look for? Jack?” 

Jack shakes his head, dropping his gaze from Guddy’s face to his chest, the faded print of his sweatshirt. “I’m good. Promise.” 

“Okay.” Guddy reaches for him, catching the front of his t-shirt and pulling him down easily. Jack hadn’t realized that the change in position means he’ll be on top of Guddy, and between his legs, but he doesn’t feel the half-expected flicker of panic at the idea. It’s fine, as long as they can kiss again. And the heat of Guddy’s body against his, the tension of his muscles and the smell of him, a clean rich mix of expensive soap and aftershave— 

It works, it works. Jack wants it. He’s getting a lot of things he wants here, things he didn’t _know_ he wanted but does, and they’re coming at him so fast he can’t sort them out and file them away in his head. 

So he lets them wash over him, instead, while he goes after Guddy’s mouth like he’s dying. Guddy steadies him, with his hands and with his patience, letting Jack crash around him while he waits it all out. It’s _good_. God, it’s good, and Jack doesn’t want it to stop. 

The part of him that knows he’s embarrassing himself, that this is pathetic and humiliating for a grown adult man, is blissfully pushed back and drowned out by the rest of the thrumming chaos in his head. Guddy’s hands are on him, running up and down his back, pulling his hips in closer so he can get friction if he wants it, or pressure, and he can feel Guddy’s body’s response, too, letting him know this is definitely a mutual thing. He’s not alone out here. 

He is, however, not a teenager anymore, and he can’t get off humping and grinding against someone on a couch. A frustrated noise catches in his throat, and somehow Guddy gets what it means. He slides his hand down inside Jack’s sweats, finding his dick and guiding it up over the waistband. 

“I got you, bud,” he mutters against Jack’s mouth, and Jack tries not to laugh, tries to keep himself steady. Guddy’s hand is big and warm and callused in a way that feels familiar from Jack’s own. His body knows this kind of touch and it doesn’t take long for him to shudder and tense and come. 

Guddy says something else, but Jack doesn’t quite make it out through the thrumming of his pulse in his ears. It’s warm and affectionate, whatever it is, and that’s good enough for him as he lets himself float for a moment. 

Guddy nudges at his head until he looks up, puzzled, and finds himself being kissed again. “You want to watch me?” Guddy asks after a minute, breaking the kiss to grin at him. “Or are you about done for the night?” 

“You calling me selfish?” Jack shakes his head and fumbles between them, trying to find the waist of Guddy’s pants. “I can help you out.” 

“I mean, if you want to.” Guddy lifts his hips, tugging his sweatshirt up out of the way so Jack can see what he’s doing. “I’m not gonna argue.” 

“Thanks.” Guddy’s dick is firm and curved, tenting the well-washed softness of his pants, Jack rubs it a few times through the fabric before he reaches in for it. He’s a down-to-business, don’t-waste-time guy himself, but he tries to slow down for this, to give Guddy a little extra. 

“Fuck,” Guddy mutters, pushing up into his hand. “Yeah, keep... keep doing that.” 

Jack has his faults, but he can follow directions, and that’s an easy one. He strokes tight and warm and easy, until Guddy curses again and spills in his hand. Jack wants to kiss him; after a minute he remembers that actually he can do that, so he does. 

“Not bad, eh?” Guddy’s smiling big and broad, so half of Jack’s attempts to kiss are landing on his teeth. “I’ve been waiting for that.” 

Jack snorts, resting his forehead against Guddy’s for a moment. “You’ve been waiting for handjobs on a couch? Are you sixteen?” 

“I wish.” A slow exhale, and Guddy’s hands wandering up and down Jack’s back. “Seriously, though. Are you okay? Are we cool?” 

“Yeah. Both of those.” Jack takes a deep breath and sits up. “I’m gonna clean up. Don’t go anywhere?” 

“Well, I mean, I want to clean up, too.” 

“Right, right.” Jack waves down the hall. “Bathroom’s down there. Regroup here in a few?” 

Guddy rolls his eyes. “This is not a drill. But yes.” 

Jack retreats down the other hallway to the master bath, where he washes his hands, splashes water over his face, and looks at himself in the mirror for a moment, water dripping down off his nose and eyelashes, eyes wide and clear. 

There’s no transformation there. He’s not a different person. Still just Jack Johnson. 

That’s reassuring. 

Back in the living room, Guddy has poured them each some more whiskey and is poking around the bar, looking for the cigar cutter. “Left drawer,” Jack says. 

“Thanks.” Guddy nods at the cigars. “This is a nice brand. I’m flattered.” 

“Hey, I’ve got manners.” Jack takes a drink and closes his eyes for a moment, letting it slide over his tongue and down his throat, treasuring the heat of it. “Do we need to have a big talk now?” 

“I don’t if you don’t.” 

Jack opens one eye. “You’re sure?” 

“It’s buddy sex. Teammate sex. It doesn’t have to be a big thing.” Guddy shrugs. “Unless you want it to be.” 

“I don’t think I’m capable of having a big thing right now.” Thank god, Guddy lets the obvious joke pass. “Buddies sounds good, though. I’d like that.” 

“Then I think we’re good.” Guddy cuts the cigars and digs around the drawer for the lighter. “Just basically don’t be assholes to each other, hook up when we both feel like it, don’t let it get into the room or on the ice.” 

“I promise not to jerk you off on the ice.” 

Guddy rolls his eyes and tosses the lighter at him. “Idiot.” 

“You walked right into it.” Jack lights his cigar and exhales smoke slowly. Guddy was right, they really are a nice brand, leaving him feeling warm in his chest. 

Guddy stays for another hour, smoking and drinking and talking about nothing. When he leaves, Jack sits on the couch with one last drink. His head isn’t spinning as fast as he expected; he’s actually pretty calm. 

It was good. All of that was just... good. 

He touches his mouth with his free hand, tracing his thumb slowly over his lower lip, the hint of burn where Guddy’s stubble scraped his skin, a tender point where Guddy’s teeth nicked him. He doesn’t doubt that what happened was real or anything, but the physical reminders are still—they're there. It’s strange and good. 

He’s solidly tipsy, maybe even drunk. Getting up and going down the hall to his bedroom might shake something loose; not worth the risk. Even though he knows he’ll regret it in the morning, he lets himself fall asleep on the couch. 

** 

The season moves along and the kids on the team start out hot. Marino grabs the steady spot on the bottom D pair and Jack finds himself and Guddy alternating being scratched and paired with the kid game to game. 

It’s embarrassing, but also not that bad. Jack keeps his mouth shut, his head down, and goes where he’s told to go, ice or press box. It gets him approving mentions from talking heads about being a true professional, whatever that means. Jim can’t trade him if there are no takers, and there aren’t. What good would throwing a tantrum do? The press box isn’t that bad. The checks still deposit. And he’s still out there for half the games and every practice. 

Guddy agrees with him, though the situation digs at him a little more than it does to Jack. “We can’t all be Sid,” he says one day, when they went back to Jack’s place after practice and messed around for a while before ordering in food. “He’s gonna play til he’s fifty, like Jagr.” 

“They both do the same, like, philosophy of life, I guess.” Jack takes a long drink of water. “Hockey’s what they love the most, so nothing can get in the way. No getting married, no kids, nothing to even compete with it.” 

“They didn’t notice that Mario did okay having a family?” 

Jack shrugs. “I’ve never actually talked to Sid about it. You know Jagr better than I do.” 

“Playing on the same team’s not the same thing as knowing him. He mostly stuck to the forwards.” Guddy stretches slowly and groans as his shoulder pops. “I guess we shouldn’t judge.” 

“Not judging here. I don’t want Sid’s life.” That’s weird to even think about. “Maybe Jags’ life, though. All the models and being a national hero.” 

“Amen to that.” Guddy sighs and leans against Jack’s shoulder. “You want me to head out, or we could hang out some more, or…?” 

Jack snorts. “Is that a subtle hint for me to suck your dick again?” He’s still figuring that out. Making steady progress, though, and he’s pretty confident he’ll get there. 

“Yeah, but also I just don’t feel like driving.” 

“Lazy ass.” Jack gets up and offers Guddy his hand. “You can stay as long as you want.” 

“Thanks, JJ.” They move from the table to the couch, and Jack lets Guddy grab the remote. It’s not like it matters; they both know they’re going to watch football for an hour or so and then mess around again and finally Guddy will go home, because all of his stuff is at his house and sleeping at Jack’s overnight might feel weird. They’re both dedicated to avoiding weird feelings as much as humanly possible. 

Casual touch is pretty normal for both of them—the locker room, the trainers’ room, bus rides, plane rides, hockey players all create spaces where it’s okay to lean on each other and hold each other up. That’s not even counting how it is in juniors, where they crawl all over each other like puppies, desperate for contact without having any words to define it. It takes a few years to train the kids out of reaching out all the time, and bits and pieces of the urge linger. 

Right now, that means they lean against each other on the couch, pressed together from shoulder to mid-thigh. It’s warm and heavy in a way that tells something deep down in their lizard brains that they’re safe here, that neither of them is going to turn on the other. 

Feeling safe like that makes Jack’s eyelids droop even more than just a day of practice and sex and takeout would. His body would be perfectly happy to fall asleep like this, up close to Guddy, breathing in the smell of his body wash and his housekeeper’s laundry detergent. He’s cozy and sleepy and the football is boring. 

“They’re talking about packaging me and Kahun for a trade,” Guddy says when the broadcast cuts to a commercial. Tension fizzes up and down Jack’s spine and he lifts his head, not breaking his body’s contact with Guddy but losing the easy peace of it. 

“Who’s talking about it? The front office, or people on the internet?” 

Guddy shrugs. “Both, I think?” 

Jack shakes his head. “You hear this from your agent or come up with it on your own?” 

“He called me, but he said it’s just rumors and he hasn’t heard directly from the team yet.” 

“Well, there you go, then.” Jack nudges him with his elbow, hoping Guddy will look at him. No dice. “Don’t stress out about it until he hears from Jim.” 

“I know, I know. Just.” Guddy exhales slowly, still staring at the TV. “Being in limbo sucks, you know? I mean. I know you know.” 

“I do know. Yeah.” Jack elbows him again and finally Guddy looks at him, mouth twisting in a wry smile. 

“Maybe just one whiskey, huh?” Guddy asks, and yeah, Jack can absolutely do that. 

They drink standing up at the bar and then they make out like that, too, a little frantic with all the stupid untethered anxiety of being who they are and doing what they do but not doing it _well enough_ anymore. Guddy bites Jack’s lower lip hard enough that he jerks away, and Jack steps on Guddy’s foot while they’re muscling around trying to figure out who’s going to end up pinned back against the wall. 

“Shit,” Guddy mutters, wincing. “Careful, I blocked a shot off that yesterday.” 

“Sorry.” Jack makes himself stop, be still, control the boundaries of his body. That’s another thing they have to train the kids to do after juniors: control themselves and not spill out all over the place. Somebody could get hurt. “Do you want to just...” 

“Lie down?” Guddy nods. “Yes. I do.” 

Jack was actually asking if he wanted to just go home. But lying down works, too. Back to bed. Back to being safe again, pressed up together, where the world can’t get in and get them. They both left their phones out on the coffee table; they don’t have to hear bad news at all, wherever it might come from. 

They’re not guys who hold hands. But they lie there, side by side, and the backs of their fingers are pressed together, thick twisted knuckles and cut-to-the-quick nails brushing against each other, every little twitch with breath and pulse repeating _I’m here, I’m here_. 

** 

Jack is a lucky guy. He knows that. Not many people at all get to grow up and play hockey for a living, and even fewer are doing it in the NHL. He’s not just living his own childhood dream, but a lot of other people’s, too. 

He tries really hard not to ever let himself forget that, even for a minute. 

He doesn’t read the stuff written about the team; what would be the point? But sometimes he hears about it, obviously. The press is its own little world, one that overlaps with the team’s little world, and sometimes he finds himself in that overlapped zone. 

There’s another fucking article that cites his ability to keep his head down and do his job and not sulk about being on the trading block as evidence that he’s _a true professional_, a pro’s pro, even, a hell of a guy. Jack thinks about that for, like, half an hour, while he tapes some sticks and watches the equipment team sharpen his skates. That is, apparently, who he is, now; that is the narrative assigned to him. 

He does think of himself as a pro, but _not pitching a fit about things he can’t control_ seems like the bare minimum to earn the label. It’s such a vague compliment that it almost comes back around to an insult: this guy sucks at hockey, but he doesn’t openly cry about it being unfair when good players are wanted more than fading ones. 

What’s he supposed to do with that? 

He’s still thinking about it when he takes his gear back to put it away properly, passing Sid and Sullivan on the way. They’re talking about nothing very important—he can tell that from Sid’s dumb giggles and the fact that Sullivan has some actual inflection in his voice—but they cut off when he walks by. 

“You okay, Johnson?” Sullivan asks. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind.” 

Jack stops and shrugs. “Apparently Rob Rossi thinks I’m a real professional.” 

They both make a face; it’s kinda funny how they react in sync. Sid’s such a damn nerd. “You are,” Sid says, “but I know nobody wants to hear it from Rossi.” 

“Ha.” Jack swings his skates around in the air a bit. “Look, we all know being a pro you keep in the room as a good example for the kids is, like, one step above dog meat—” 

Sid sighs. “Jack—” 

Jack raises his voice over him. “And you’ve got _Sid_ here to be dog meat, and Malkin, so if it comes down to it, tell Jim just to shoot me and throw me in the river, okay?” 

Sid is shaking his head, but Sullivan gives Jack a steady look and a little twist of a smile. Sullivan gets it, in his cranky Boston heart. “I’ll tell Geno about the dog meat thing,” he says, “and then you can give the kids a lesson in being a real pro about getting your ass kicked, how’s that?” 

“You think I couldn’t take him?” Jack is grinning now, for real, big enough that it’s making Sid stare at him in confusion. “I could definitely take him, Sully.” 

“I wouldn’t put any real money on it.” Sullivan touches Sid’s shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Go home and get some rest.” 

Jack keeps standing there til Sullivan walks away, and then longer, until Sid’s eyes track back to him again. “You want to come over to my place instead? The delivery service came yesterday, I’ve got food you’ll eat.” 

“Sure.” Sid shoves his hands in his pockets. “You want to talk about anything?” 

“No, I do not.” Jack jerks his head for Sid to follow him, and takes his stuff back to his stall. “I want to eat dinner." 

“With me.” 

“Glad you’re following along.” Jack shrugs into his jacket. “This is what people do, the last time I checked. They hang out. They eat dinner.” 

“People, yeah.” Sid raises his eyebrows. “But you don’t. At least not with me.” 

Why does Sid have to _do_ this. “Maybe we can do sort of a follow-up talk on something. But just a quick one.” 

“Okay.” Sid looks a little smug, but hugely relieved, like Jack admitting something against his will had made the world make sense again. “I’ll see you there in a few.” 

“Thanks, man.” Jack finishes getting his bag together and follows Sid out the door. Sid then follows him to the house, riding his bumper like Jack’s grandfather used to do when he was following anyone. Jack would give him shit about it, except even following that close, Sid gets caught at the last red light. 

That gives Jack just enough time to have two drinks poured by the time Sid gets to the house. Those are sitting on the counter while he takes the meal-service dinners out of the refrigerator. 

“We’re drinking?” Sid asks, settling in leaning on the counter and taking one of the glasses. “Is it good or bad drinking?” 

“I’m just being hospitable.” Jack turns the oven on to preheat. “You’re paranoid.” 

“Can you blame me?” Sid takes a drink and closes his eyes. “Shit. That’s good.” 

“Relax.” Jack sips from his own glass. “I wanted to say thanks.” 

“About what?” 

“What do you think?” 

Sid looks sideways at him and shrugs, like there are just so many things Jack could want to thank him for. “I don’t know.” 

“Jesus.” Jack looks up at the ceiling, fighting with himself to stop blushing. No good; he can feel the heat running all the way to his hairline. “That thing you told me about that, um, that guy I was interested in. And being happy or whatever.” 

“Oh!” Sid grins over his glass. “Oh, right. So you went for it?” 

“Yeah. Shut up.” 

“I don’t want details! Just, like.” Sid gestures at him. “Things are good? You’re good?” 

“_Yes_.” He’s blushing even harder. He shouldn’t have said anything. Fuck saying thank you. Sid doesn’t deserve courtesy. “I’m good. Now let’s talk about something else.” 

“You’re the one who brought me over here, you know.” 

“For dinner! Not for, like. Making fun of me.” 

“I’m not making fun of you. I’m just... you started it.” Sid takes another drink, then giggles, his stupid honking giggle that hasn’t changed since they were kids. “I’m glad, all right? I’m happy for you.” 

“Great. Awesome.” Jack gulps down a big swallow of whiskey and turns to fuss with the oven. “I’m happy you’re happy.” 

“You want me to go find something on TV instead of bugging you?” 

Typical Sid, to torture him and then give him an out. Jack nods, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the little preheating light. 

Sid walks past him and out to the living room, calling back over his shoulder, “Don’t tell me if you’ve hooked up with this guy on the couch, I don’t want to know!” 

Jack carefully bangs his head against the cabinets, but doesn’t say anything. If Sid doesn’t want to know, well, Jack will take him at his word. 

** 

Games roll by and Geno’s going to be back soon. There’s a different energy in the room just knowing that day is approaching, partly because it means reshuffling the lines and somebody going back to Wilkes-Barre, and partly because _Geno coming back_ is viewed with roughly the same utter seriousness as the second coming of Christ. 

Jack keeps his head down, minds his own business. Line reshuffling means the d-men who have been playing forward will slot back in where they’re supposed to be, which means he and Guddy are back to alternating sitting out, and the trade whispers will start up again. 

They don’t talk about that, obviously. They’re both living in the moment. Jack wants to enjoy the ice time while he’s got it. 

Guddy’s over one night after a game, and they’re lying in bed again, just barely touching the way they do, fingers ghosting against each other. “Do you think you’ll retire when your contract’s up?” Guddy asks, his face hidden in the dark. “Or go to Europe?” 

Jack snorts. “I’m too old to figure out Europe, man. Different rink, different language, no way.” 

“I might do it. Chance to keep playing, you know? And it would be cool to live somewhere else, maybe.” 

“If you want to, you should go, definitely." He nudges his foot against Guddy’s leg. “See if Jags will sign you in Kladno, eh?” 

“You know, you’re joking but he might.” Guddy turns his head enough that Jack can see his grin. “He would make sure I lived like a king in Kladno.” 

“What’s a king in Kladno compared to a defenseman in Pittsburgh, in terms of, like, actual lifestyle?” 

“That, I do not know.” Guddy laughs a little and sits up, fumbling around for his phone. “Shit. It’s late.” 

Jack sits up, too, tugging the sheet over himself. “If that happens, I’ll fly out and watch you play, and you’ll have to show me around town.” 

“I’ll hold you to that, you know.” Guddy steps into his sweatpants and Jack lets himself take a minute just to admire the view. Whatever happens, when Geno comes back or after or six months for now or three years—he'll remember this. He’s never gonna forget this. “I’ll show you a good time in Kladno.” 

“Again, what’s a good time in Kladno compared to one in Pittsburgh?” He ducks the t-shirt Guddy throws at him. “I’m just saying! Are we talking dinner and a movie, or hooking up in an apartment from the Communist era?” 

“I’ll take you to Jags’ house, okay? His guest rooms, his cook. If it’s good enough for him it’s gotta be good enough for us.” 

“All right. It’s a deal.” Jack tosses the t-shirt back and gets out of bed, too; might as well see Guddy out and clean up the kitchen before he goes to bed. 

They get all the way to the front door, Guddy’s hand is even on the knob, when he stops and gives Jack a serious look. “I mean it, you know. If I end up in Kladno and you don’t come visit, I’ll track you down.” 

Jack has to laugh. “And do what?” 

“Tell you that you hurt my feelings.” Guddy’s hand catches Jack’s chin, holding him still as he leans in for a long, slow kiss. “I know you don’t want to do that.” 

He’s right. Jack wants Guddy to be happy, all the time, as happy as Jack is right now in this weird little moment. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” he says. 

“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” Guddy says. They both keep smiling at each other, just like that, big and stupid. 

They’re never going to forget about this.


End file.
